Casablanca
by inkstainedfingers97
Summary: "Everything okay?" Marcus asked, concerned. "Yeah." The lie was unconvincing even to her own ears. Since most rational human beings wouldn't be reduced to tears by the delivery of Italian pastry, obviously there was more to the story than that, but Marcus knew enough not to pry. Post ep for 6x20, Il Tavolo Blanco


Title: Casablanca

Rating: Teen

Summary: Post-ep for 6x20, Il Tavolo Blanco

Spoilers: Through 6x20, Il Tavolo Blanco

Disclaimer: If I could make money writing fanfiction, I would quit my day job in a second.

A/N: Had to write this after Il Tavolo Blanco to relieve my feelings. Not entirely happy with it but ready to call it done and get back to Beyond Measure. This is a one shot.

xxx

Marcus wasn't an idiot. He took one look at her face when she came inside clutching the bag of cannoli and looking like death and knew she wasn't in the mood for company anymore.

"Everything okay?" he asked, concerned.

"Yeah." The lie was unconvincing even to her own ears. She swallowed. "Jane brought cannoli."

Since most rational human beings wouldn't be reduced to tears by the delivery of Italian pastry, obviously there was more to the story than that, but Marcus knew enough not to pry.

That was one of the things she liked about him. That he could let her be sometimes. If he noticed she was upset, he would let her know he was there to support her, but he would leave her in peace to work it out on her own if that was what she wanted. He didn't pick and prod at her to open up because he couldn't stand not knowing every little thought that crossed her mind. It was a very restful quality in a man.

He got up from the couch. "Listen," he said awkwardly. "You've had a long day. I'm going to let you get some rest."

If she was a better girlfriend, she would insist that she was fine and that he should stay, she thought. She swallowed, feeling like there was a piece of glass lodged in her throat. "Okay."

He put on his jacket and came over to her side. He took her hands. "I'll see you tomorrow, okay?" he said softly.

She closed her eyes. He was so goddamn sweet. "Yeah."

He left.

xxx

She considered eating the entire bag of cannoli in a bout of self-pity, but she had a feeling it wouldn't mix well with the anxiety churning in her stomach, so she decided to forego it for the time being. She put the bag in the fridge and then collapsed on the living room couch.

She was exhausted, but knew there was no way she was going to be able to sleep right now. So, knowing that it was probably a bad idea, she turned on OnDemand and started scrolling through the selections until she found Casablanca.

She curled up in the corner of the couch and watched the whole thing, curling in tighter on herself with every passing scene.

When it was over, she cried for half an hour straight.

The tears were still wet on her face when she picked up her keys with numb fingers and drove to Marcus's place.

It was after midnight by the time she got there, and she could tell she'd woken him.

"Teresa," he said, blinking himself awake as he took note of her red, puffy eyes and tear-streaked face. "Is everything all right?"

I could have loved you, she thought unhappily. In another life, I could have. If only I hadn't been indelibly marked by another before I met you, it could have been this one. "I can't go to DC with you," she blurted out.

Marcus went very still. "Are you sure?" he asked, and there was real pain in his voice.

Belatedly it occurred to her that driving over to a man's house in the middle of the night to break his heart wasn't exactly the most, well, _polite_ way of handling things. Perhaps it would have been better to wait until morning.

No. There was never a good time for a conversation like this. Better to get it over with, like ripping off a band-aid. Or amputating a rotten limb. "Yes," she said, the word bitter in her mouth. "I'm sure."

He searched her face. "You're not going to come visit, are you?" He sounded resigned, defeated.

"No," she agreed, feeling sick. "I can't see you anymore."

He sighed. "It's Jane, isn't it?"

She couldn't deny it, which made her feel like a horrible person. "I'm sorry," she whispered.

He shook his head. "I never really had a chance, did I?"

She was the scum of the earth. "I wanted it to be you," she said desperately. "I really did."

He looked off to the side and managed a rueful smile. "I think that makes it worse."

"I'm sorry," she said miserably.

He stepped towards her and kissed her on the forehead. "Take care, Teresa," he said softly.

She nodded, her face crumpling. "You, too."

She felt his eyes following her as she walked away. She prayed God would someday forgive her for how unfairly she'd treated this good, kind man.

xxx

She slept horribly that night and woke at dawn, restless and fidgety with nerves.

She drove to Jane's place at seven feeling as though a basket full of snakes had been set loose in her insides. She took the cannoli with her.

She was so nervous when she knocked on the door she was seriously concerned she might throw up on the metal steps of the Airstream.

When he opened the door, she was somewhat gratified to see he looked like his night had been at least as awful as hers had been. His eyes had dark circles under them, and the lines around his mouth looked more pronounced than usual. Lisbon, long acquainted with Jane's irregular sleeping habits, knew the night had to have been pretty bad for Jane to actually let the effects of it show.

He blinked at her in surprise. "Lisbon."

She scowled at him. "I am not Ingrid fucking Bergman," she announced. It seemed important that he know that.

"Okay," he said warily, his eyebrows climbing towards his hairline.

Look at that. She'd managed to surprise him after all. Lisbon stepped up into the Airstream without waiting for an invitation, thrusting the bag of cannoli into his chest as she pushed past him.

"Casablanca is a horrible movie," she informed him.

"I didn't think you'd ever seen Casablanca," Jane said cautiously, setting the cannoli down on the counter.

"Well, I have now," she said irritably. "It was awful."

"It's a beautiful love story."

"No, it's not," she snapped. "It's tragic."

"Yes," Jane agreed. "But also beautiful."

She shook her head. "I can't believe people actually watch that movie for fun."

"What exactly about it do you object to so strongly?" he asked, still wary.

"Ingrid Bergman! She actually told him to do the thinking for both of them, do you believe that?" she said, shaking her head. "Then she just lets Humphrey Bogart make this huge-life altering decision for the both of them. And him! He thinks he knows everything. He honestly thinks he has the right to tell her to get on that plane."

"He just wants what's best for her," Jane said cautiously.

"What does he know?" Lisbon huffed indignantly. "He should have let her make up her own mind."

"But he knows that her staying with him is the worst possible thing for her," Jane objected. "How could he want that for her?"

"Of course you'd side with him," Lisbon said, frustrated. Idiots, both of them.

Jane sighed. "At the risk of incurring more of your wrath, why are we talking about Casablanca right now?"

She jabbed him in the chest with her index finger. "I am _not_ Ingrid Bergman," she said angrily. "_You_ are not Rick." She let her hand fall back to her side, the fight draining out of her. "And Marcus is not Victor Laszlo."

Jane froze. "Does—does that mean you've decided to go to DC?" he asked, voice tight. He looked devastated.

Lisbon glared at him. "No, you idiot. It means I decided to stay."

He seized her hands, clutching them in a painfully tight grip. "You're staying?"

She nodded. "Yeah."

"Oh, thank God." He crushed her to his chest, holding her so tightly to him she was afraid he might crack her ribs. She thought he might have been shaking.

Of course, it was kind of hard to tell, since she was trembling like a leaf.

"I broke up with Marcus," she mumbled into his shoulder, her voice muffled by his shirt.

He clenched his arms even more tightly around her. She couldn't breathe. Then he let her go, and the smile on his face was like the breaking dawn. He took her face in his hands and started raining down kisses all over her face, pressing his lips to her forehead, her cheeks, her eyelids. The corner of her mouth.

Lisbon stood stock still, unable to believe this was happening. Jeez. Maybe she should have announced her lack of resemblance to Ingrid Bergman months ago.

"I'm so glad you're staying," he murmured, his voice ragged. "I would have been lost without you."

That snapped her into action. She pulled back and hit him on the arm. "You jerk. Why didn't you say something?"

"I didn't know how," he admitted, shame-faced.

Lisbon snorted. "Yeah, right. You're the one who's supposed to be so great with women. Hell, Fischer said you had that mob guy's fiancée wrapped around your little finger in under ten minutes."

He shook his head. "It's easy when you're not invested. With you, I had so much to lose. I was paralyzed with fear."

"So you were just going to let me walk away?" she demanded.

He ran his fingers through her hair. "If that was what you wanted. I was telling the truth last night. Nothing is more important to me than your happiness."

This was an infuriating answer. "You could have said something."

He sighed. "How could I speak up now? I'd been stalling for time for three months, trying to figure out what to say to you, and then all of a sudden you were with perfect Pike, and it felt like it was too late."

"I tried to be happy with Marcus," she said with a frown. "God, he really was perfect, you know?"

Jane scowled. "I know."

"It didn't work, though. I was fooling myself the whole time." She took a deep breath. "So if you really want me to be happy, Jane, you're going to have to stop up and do the job yourself, because apparently no one else will do the trick."

"Gladly," he whispered, his voice rough with emotion. Then he bent his head and kissed her.

Lisbon sighed into his mouth. _This_ was what a girl wanted to hear. Just this.

When they broke apart, Jane grinned at her, looking ridiculously happy. "So, Casablanca, eh?"

"Marcus said it was a classic," Lisbon muttered, embarrassed. "He didn't tell me how cheesy and horrible it was."

"Marcus is right," Jane said. "It is a classic. We'll have to watch it again sometime, when you're in a frame of mind to properly appreciate it."

She looked at him incredulously. "I'm never watching that movie again."

"We'll give it a few years then," Jane said, cheerful as all hell. "It's really a great movie, Lisbon."

She raised her eyebrows at him. "And in the meantime?"

"In the meantime, I will shower you with affection," he informed her. "I will cater to your every whim in hopes that you won't notice that you've chosen to stay with a broken middle-aged man."

"You're not broken," she scolded him. She paused. "The middle-aged part sounds right though."

"Ha, ha," he said dryly.

"You're going to cater to my every whim now, huh?" Lisbon said. She expected that particular declaration to stand until lunchtime at the latest. Jane was never going to give up having his own way. But she didn't care, not as long as he was with her. And being showered with affection—that part sounded pretty good, too.

"Yes," he said firmly. "We should start now. What do you want to do? Go to Paris? Bali? Gorge ourselves on caviar and champagne?"

Lisbon's eyes strayed to the pastry on the counter. Her stomach growled. "Let's start with the cannoli."


End file.
